Butterfly Killer
by Imadra Blue
Summary: On the eve of her wedding to a man she doesn't love, Yuffie must choose between her happiness and the glory of Wutai. In the end, a butterfly will help her decide. Gen.


**Notes:** Written for the 2006 Femgenfication. Post-Advent Children. Many, many thanks to the lovely Rynne for the wonderful beta. While writing this fic, I found "Butterfly" by Tori Amos very inspirational, and I encourage you to listen to it at least once.

...

She didn't love him. She didn't even _like_ him. It wasn't supposed to matter, but on that day of all days, it suddenly did.

Yuffie Kisaragi sighed and stared at herself in the mirror. She didn't recognize the white-painted face that stared back at her. Her lips were stained red, and her eyes outlined in kohl. Her hair had been coiffed perfectly, and her bandanas taken away. When she stood up, the wide sash on the embroidered gown she wore made her look ramrod-straight. She looked like a little doll, of the variety that had once sat on a shelf in her room. Every piece of jewelry, every line of make-up, every beading on her headdress was supposed to mean something for that day.

It was her wedding day. Her father had engaged her to an independently wealthy materia seller. At first, she'd even been excited, happy. Her marriage could bring honor and nobility back to Wutai – moreover, it would make her rich. Until the day she was to seal the deal, she'd been euphoric about the entire situation.

Now, it all came crashing down on her, caving in as deeply and darkly as the Northern Crater. All she could think about was that she didn't love her soon-to-be husband. She would spend the rest of her life without love, or if she found it, it would be stolen, a fling on the side.

There had been a time in her life where she didn't mind stolen goods. But she was twenty now. She wanted to finally own something of value that was rightfully hers.

...

When Yuffie was five, her mother would take her out to the garden behind their large house and let her chase butterflies while her mother tended to the roses. Yuffie would shriek as she ran about, careful not to trample the flowers, attempting to catch the colorful butterflies as they fluttered around.

Their wings glittered in the sun like jewels. They moved so gracefully, yet energetically, just like Yuffie wanted to. As seemingly slow as they flew, Yuffie had difficulty grabbing them, but he enjoyed the chase, the feel of wind on her cheeks as she ran, hands outstretched.

The first time Yuffie ever caught a butterfly was the one of the darkest days of her life. She captured one of the glittering orange ones in her chubby little hands, exhilarated by the chase. Careful not to squash it, she ran over to her mother, shrieking that she'd finally found one.

Her mother was lying on the ground, her white gown spread across a rose bed. Her black hair spilled across her face, and her shovel lay limply in her hand.

Yuffie screamed and accidentally crushed the butterfly in her hand.

...

She could hear the soft music down the hall, and her father talking to the priest. Somewhere in that room where her father stood would be her future husband. She wondered if he'd still look pasty in traditional Wutai robes or not. She'd only ever seen him in a suit.

The ringing in her ear clicked off and the answering message turned on. She listened to the sound of his voice and almost instantly relaxed.

"Hello," she said, "it's me, Yuffie. I don't know if you came for the wedding or not, but I… I'm…"

She hung up the phone, folding it in her palm, and thought about her duty. She thought about the money. She thought about the honor of her people, finally restored. She even thought of the glory it would bring her to be the one who restored it.

Yuffie stared at her reflection for a very long time. All she recognized on her painted face was her eyes, brown and full of indecision.

...

The dead butterfly's wings left a powdery residue on her fingers. When she rubbed it, it smeared across her fingers, refusing to come off. It shimmered like gold dust, but she doubted it was worth anything. She spent the whole time the doctor examined her mother staring at the butterfly powder, in tears that she'd killed such a beautiful creature.

When her father made her wash her hands, she cried even harder.

They said her mother was going to die. All Yuffie knew was that her beautiful mother already seemed like a ghost. Her long black hair hung limply at either side of her pale, sickly face. Her eyes had sunk into her face, and her fingers looked worn to the bone when she stretched them out. She frightened Yuffie.

Even when her father tried to bring her into the room to visit, Yuffie refused. She would scream and struggle, pounding her tiny fists against her father's legs. She didn't want to see the ghost sitting in her mother's bed, looking at her with her mother's eyes.

When she escaped her father's grasp, she went to sit by the roses in her mother's garden and cried until she fell asleep.

...

She hated the room. Thin wood trapped her on four sides, with an even thinner sliding door separating her from the hall full of people waiting for her to come out. Her father knocked on it again.

"Yuffie? It's time," he said, impatience in his voice now. She wondered if he cared that she didn't love the man waiting for her outside.

"I'll be out in a minute!" she called, putting false cheer into her voice. Her gaze never left the vanity mirror she sat in front of.

As his footsteps receded down the hall, Yuffie picked up the phone and dialed the number again. It went immediately to the answering service – perhaps he was on another call. "It's me, Yuffie, again. I… Do you remember the Da Chao Mountains? Where Don Corneo hung me from a statue?" Her lips quirked at the memory. It was completely gross, but she couldn't deny there'd been humor in the situation. "I was just wondering if you… never mind."

She clicked her PHS off and stared down at the glowing dialpad. She needed to get married. Everyone was waiting for her.

...

When her mother finally died three months later, Yuffie was grateful. The ghost wouldn't want to hold her or touch her anymore. Her mother was well and truly dead. She knew this was the wrong thing to feel, but she felt it anyway. Feelings didn't go away just because she wanted them to. So after the funeral, Yuffie went out to her mother's garden.

It took her a moment to realize it wasn't her mother's anymore.

Yuffie still wore her white gown, and she felt as she'd been ironed and starched, not her outfit. Her little wooden shoes made soft clacking noises as she walked down the stone path. The sun glittered in the sky far above. Blissfully ignorant of her mother's body burning on a funeral pyre, butterflies hovered around the flowers.

The final time Yuffie caught a butterfly, she snatched out of the air with little effort and crushed it on purpose. Even so, she cried as she buried its tiny corpse by the reddest rose she could find. It was a good cry.

Her father asked her why she had dirt and powder on her fingers and white clothing, but she never answered him.

...

Yuffie stood in front of the door now. She could see her life stretching out in front of her. She would be a trophy wife, the pretty little thing that the pasty man had bought with his money as easily as the priceless Wutai vases sitting on his table. She would smile at all the parties, her mouth filled with empty platitudes and dishonest flattery. She wouldn't have friends; rich people like her only ever had acquaintances and business partners.

The beads on her headdress clinked together, and Yuffie could already taste the salt of her future husband on her tongue. She could feel his sweaty body against hers, taking what was his later that night. She would turn her face, not even bothering to pretend to enjoy it as he thrust into her. He might even like that. He had cold eyes, that one.

Like him, she was materialistic, greedy, demanding. She knew her faults as well as her strengths. But wasn't there a limit to this behavior? Was she selfish enough to sacrifice Wutai's glory for her personal happiness? Was she greedy enough to sacrifice emotional happiness for material wealth?

Wasn't there another way to bring Wutai glory, all while making herself happy?

When Yuffie spun around to look at the mirror one last time, she found an orange butterfly on it, wings fluttering every few seconds, as if it were nervous. She approached it carefully, silently, using every ninja skill she'd learned over the years, not impeded at all by all her ceremonial clothing.

The butterfly did not move as she came closer. Hummingbird-quick, she struck out at it, crushing the insect between her palm and the mirror. When she lifted her hand, the shimmery powder was on her palm, along with a wing and a leg. She brushed off the wing and the legs, but rubbed the powder between her hands, finally deciding what to do.

She did not cry this time.

...

When Yuffie's father finally broke down the door, all he found of her was her red wedding dress, a paint-stained rag lying on the vanity, and a dead butterfly smashed against the mirror. Everything else she would need was gone.

He smiled, as if he'd known all along. And perhaps he had.

...

She wasn't entirely surprised to find Cloud Strife at the Da Chao Mountains, leaning against his motorbike, Fenrir. He was the picture of cool in his dark blue outfit and spiky blond hair, the kind of guy who melted girls' hearts and soaked their panties with a look. The best part about him was that he didn't realize it. He didn't know the power he held over women any more than he did the Jenova power contained in his wiry body.

Yuffie smiled and hefted her black bag, but before she could speak, Cloud did. "I figured you'd show up here," he said, waving a gloved hand back at the statue of a long-dead god behind him. "I didn't expect you to go through with it."

Stopping in front of him, Yuffie tilted her head to examine Cloud's handsome face. "I decided I had better things to do and better ways to make money and get materia." When Cloud's lips quirked, she spoke again. "I still have yours." His materia was in her bag, clinking gently beside her clothing and her mother's necklace.

"Funny that you still think of it as mine."

"I guess so."

To her surprise, Cloud brushed his fingers across the side of her cheek. The glove came back white. "You missed a spot," he said, as neutral as ever.

Yuffie only threw her arms around him in gratitude. "Thank you," she whispered against his chest, feeling as warm and safe as she always did around him. He patted her awkwardly on the back, and when she pulled away, he stared at her blankly.

At least he wasn't as stone cold as he'd been when she'd kissed him on their date at the Gold Saucer all those years ago. He was improving.

"So, where to?" he asked, climbing onto Fenrir. She climbed behind him, strapping her bag to the back and shivering in delight. She loved Fenrir. It went _fast_, and Yuffie liked nothing better than to go fast.

"Midgar, I guess. But I'm in no rush."

Cloud shrugged and revved Fenrir's engine. A moment later, they were racing down the stone pathways of the Da Chao Mountains, the sandstone blurring to featureless beige as Cloud drove past. Bandana streaming in the wind, Yuffie held onto him tightly, her hands clasped around his chest, where she could feel his heartbeat.

Cloud didn't belong to her. He belonged to Tifa, to Aeris, even to Marlene and Denzel. But not Yuffie.

Maybe that was why he came for her. He didn't want to belong to anyone. Like Yuffie, Cloud wanted to be free.

Free to chase the butterflies and kill them when need be.

_End._


End file.
